


Five Near Misses and One Near Hit

by DoreyG



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Green Lantern (Comics)
Genre: 5 + 1, Coitus Interruptus, Community: comment_fic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Frottage, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Table Sex, Totally Obvious Idiots Being Totally Obvious, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Perhaps,” Bruce admits, smirking, and presses him right back against the wall – grinds against him until his mouth falls open, until all thoughts fly from his head because good <i>god</i> Bruce can move when he puts his mind to it, “perhaps not. If you’re quiet and quick now, there should be no problem.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Near Misses and One Near Hit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohmcgee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/gifts).



“This,” Bruce says against his mouth, “is a bad idea.”

“Oh, stop being such a whiny baby about it,” he mutters, and yanks the man forwards by his stupid belt until they bump back against the table – papers scattering dramatically, “who’s going to actually walk in? And, even if they do walk in, who’s going to _care_?

“Who’s going to walk into the main meeting room on the watchtower?” Bruce asks wryly, still has to brace his gauntlets as they grind together – friction almost enough through their costumes, but maddeningly not _quite_. Honestly, he’s not going to start nagging the Guardians about putting in an easily accessible hole for booty calls, _but_ … “Who’s going to care that we’re fucking on the only table?”

“...Point,” he admits, and still leans back until he can wrap one of his legs around Bruce’s back – grind up against the man until he can feel his groans vibrating ever so sweetly against his lips. It’s sweet, seeing Bruce trying to keep his composure in the face of impossible odds – he never thought futility could look adorable before, “but it’ll be fine, as long as we’re quick. Come _on_.”

“Hal...”

“ _Bruce_...” He purrs sweetly in reply, and uses his leverage to grind up again.

“ _Fine_ ,” until Bruce finally snaps, grips his hips and bodily _lifts_ him up onto the table, “but we do have to be quick, and _you_ have to be quiet for once in your life.”

“I love it when you get bossy,” he snorts. And, before he can examine the emotions behind his words too closely, yanks Bruce down on top of him – gets his mouth over the other man’s mouth, his chin, the brief flash of his throat, anything that he can actually _reach_ , “and don’t worry, Brucie, I’ll give you the quietest ride of your _life_.”

And, for about a minute, it’s the best ride of his life too. He puts his mouth anywhere he can reach, getting rough stubble as often as soft lip. Bruce grips his hips hard, his ass harder and grinds against him like the world might end at any moment. They move together perfectly, as in sync as if they’re in the middle of a battle with the sky falling and Doomsday and all his minions surging helplessly through, and-

...Are those footsteps, coming from the corridor?

If he wasn’t the Green Lantern and if Bruce wasn’t the motherfucking Batman they’d be sunk, but as it is they manage to scramble across the room from each other just as the door opens. There’s a long pause, and then Billy’s voice brightly says, “oh, we didn’t expect anybody else to be in here at this time of day!”

“The room wasn’t booked,” Clark offers from behind him. Staring between Bruce’s swollen lips and his wrinkled costume with narrowed, despairing eyes, “we thought we could use it for a quick catch up. As people do every day, on the hour, with their _lunches_.”

“Uh,” he says, helplessly.

“Don’t worry,” Bruce interrupts, grabs his arm and tows him from the room before he can accidentally reveal anything or force his head right through the side of the watchtower, “we were just leaving, to get lunch.”

 

\--

 

“Okay’” he says, as Bruce presses him back against the wall, “if the watchtower was a bad idea, _this_ -“

“Jordan,” Bruce sighs, and deliberately bites at his throat. Like a dick, who somehow knows _exactly_ where all his sensitive spots are and has no morality about hitting them, “didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

“Um,” he says, and refuses to let his eyes roll back in his head as Bruce bites down again. It’s unfair treatment, is what it is. It’s manipulative and unkind and he won’t give into it no matter how much his stupid body begs, “you’ve actually told me that many times. I’m never sure how long it’s supposed to last for, you know?”

“Hn,” Bruce says against his throat, and lathers his tongue across his pulse point. And that’s it, Batman’s a supervillain – he’s just been sneaky about it this whole time, “perhaps you should just stay silent all the time, then.”

“One, not possible,” he points out, and arches up against supervillain Batman despite himself, “two, you’d _miss_ me.”

“Perhaps,” Bruce admits, smirking, and presses him right back against the wall – grinds against him until his mouth falls open, until all thoughts fly from his head because good _god_ Bruce can move when he puts his mind to it, “perhaps not. If you’re quiet and quick now, there should be no problem.”

“Nngh,” he says intelligently, and grinds down against the thigh Bruce helpfully presents to him, “How... How can you even talk like this?”

“Not all of us revert to the level of cavemen when aroused, Jordan,” Bruce purrs smugly, and leans in to bite at his neck again – teeth so sharp that he might as well be an actual vampire, the way he’s going, “am I to take that as a yes?”

“Fucking hell,” he whimpers, at the rasp of Bruce’s breath across his neck, and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, “ _duh_.”

And for a moment it is perfect yet again, He grinds down against Bruce, Bruce presses up against him, they rub up against each other. He gets his hands in Bruce’s hair and tugs hard, Bruce responds by actively savaging his neck, they push each other as far as they possibly can. Orgasm starts to rush over him, a sharp peak that feels like _home_ -

And, oh god, those are definitely voices from around the corner.

Their reflexes, thankfully, save them yet again. By the time that Guy and Kyle round the corner, heads close in conversation, he’s plastered an expression of outrage on his face and Bruce has got his hands fisted in the front of his costume. It’s a near flawless cover, if he does say so himself.

“Oi!” At least to Guy. Although, quite honestly, they could probably be fucking right in the middle of the corridor and Guy wouldn’t notice, “what the hell is going on here?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says blithely, releasing him and taking a calm step back. His face is the very picture of serenity, like an iced over pond on a cold day or a Batman preparing to punch the financially disadvantaged, “what does it look like?”

“It-!”

“Looks like you were fighting,” Kyle interrupts hurriedly, blanching as he glances briefly down at his neck, and grabs Guy’s arm to drag him along, “it’s, uh, certainly none of our business and probably incredibly boring anyway and would you _look_ at the time. We really have to get going! So we’ll just... Leave you to it, then.”

“...Kyle, wha-?”

“Yes,” he says innocently, and doesn’t look at Bruce for fear of bursting out laughing. He can read the dick’s expressions, they’re generally just as unfair as his mouth, “please, leave us to our fighting.”

 

\--

 

“Alfred,” Bruce says deliberately into his ear, “is going to kill you.”

“He’ll kill you first,” he points out cheerfully, and shoves the man right up against one of the kitchen counters – rubs right up against him, in that certain way he’s been told is absolutely _maddening_ , until his eyes start going dark, “I’m a guest, remember? It’d be _rude_ to murder me.”

“Hn,” Bruce huffs, and grabs his hips to turn them. Still doesn’t move away after the manoeuvre is completed. Only stays there, staring at him with dark and needful eyes, “you’ve thought about this too much.”

“Pot, kettle,” he purrs smugly. And, since Bruce isn’t actually moving, decides that he can be kind enough to do the man’s work for him – brace himself up against the shiny countertop, and start moving his hips in that way that always drives Bruce _nuts_ , “come on, don’t tell me you haven’t drawn up an exact list of the order Alfred will murder people in if he ever snaps.”

Bruce stares at him darkly, a slightly bashful look in his eyes.

“It’s probably colour coded,” he says, smirking helplessly, “with little pictures, and case studies, and hyperlinks...”

“If you don’t mind,” Bruce grunts, still giving him that dark look. So angry, so sweet – because sometimes Bruce, for all his bluster, is more like an angry kitten than the goddamn Batman, “I’d rather not talk about Alfred _or_ hyperlinks at present moment.”

“Alright,” he grins - knowing that he’s won by the tone of Bruce’s voice, the glint in his eye. Because maybe, just maybe, he knows that angry kitten better than either of them really want to admit, “it’s like you said earlier, if we’re quick and I’m quiet there should be absolutely no problem. So get _on_ with it.”

Bruce remains silent for a long few moments. Dark, hot look still in his eyes. A slight smirk almost lurking on his lips.

“Or I start talking about Alfred again...”

“Fine,” Bruce snarls, pressing him back against the countertop again. But there’s the slightest huff of a laugh in his voice, the slightest spark of amusement in his eyes as he starts to move again, “ _fine_.”

And for a while, perhaps a few minutes this time, his entire world is filled with Bruce. He flexes his thighs, Bruce pushes him a little higher onto the countertop until they can properly wrap around each other. He gets his hands beneath Bruce’s shirt, Bruce breathes out shakily against his mouth and presses their bodies hard together. He whines high in his throat, Bruce growls hotly in reply and-

Those are definitely heavy boots heading towards them, godammit.

By the time Jason, the one of Bruce’s kids he gets along best with to the lasting surprise of all parties involved, pokes his head through the door they’re on opposite sides of the kitchen. It’s probably a good enough cover, would be a good enough cover for most people, but Bruce’s shirt is still half unbuttoned and he knows his hair must be a mess. He sees Jason’s eyes narrow at the sight, his gaze dart suspiciously between them...

“I got stabbed on patrol last night,” until Bruce jumps in to explain, like the genius he can be when he’s not devoting all his energy to being an utter dick, “Hal was just... Checking, to see that I wasn’t in too much pain.”

There’s a long pause. Despite himself, he holds his breath.

“Huh,” Jason says slowly. And then, with a casual smirk: “sounds legit. I mean, that’s how Tim always checks my stab wounds. Hey, did Alfred get any milk in?”

“Jason,” Bruce frowns severely, crosses his arms over his chest and adopts his best ‘pissed off dad’ look. Which is hilarious, really, because the few times he’s been confronted with Bruce’s parenting style the man has had absolutely no room to get pissy, “you need to stop breaking into the manor to steal milk. It’s starting to get annoying.”

“Eh, let up,” he grins cheerfully, and hops lightly off the countertop with the status quo firmly in place, “you just got stabbed, he’s obviously dealing with the trauma!”

 

\--

 

“On a mission?” He pants helplessly, arching up into Bruce’s hand, “seriously?”

They’re in a spaceship, heading back from official lantern business that Bruce – being Bruce – invited himself along on. Everything went terribly wrong, of course, and things got yelled and thrown and exploded. The moment their ragtag delegation, a green lantern and a guy dressed up in a bat costume and a yellow lantern who trusted neither of them to tie their shoes let alone handle a delicate peace negotiation, got back to the ship Bruce couldn’t resist grabbing him and dragging him off to the makeshift medical centre at top speed.

...And jumping him, the moment they got there.

“Call it adrenaline,” Bruce breathes against his check, and rubs up his thighs – the pressure through his uniform just enough to be maddening, “I need to see that you’re alright, Ha- Jordan.”

“I’ve heard better lines in porn,” he attempts to say flatly, and tries not to look too embarrassed when it comes out more like a moan, “seriously, there are medical instruments for exactly this sort of thing, there’s no need for you to- _fuck_.”

“Medical instruments can’t replicate the same results as the human touch,” Bruce informs him, with a perfectly straight face.

“Better lines in porn,” he repeats, somehow even shakier than before. Probably because Bruce, living right up to his potential as an utter bastard, has moved one of his questing hands _right_ up between his legs, “seriously, Sinestro could walk right through that door at any moment.”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” he says darkly, and still doesn’t shove Bruce’s hand away. It doesn’t really seem that important, somehow, “I swear, he has this _sense_ for the best moments to-“

“Jordan,” Bruce interrupts, and leans right back to look him in the eye – serious, deliberate, like they’re somehow more than an ever growing string of casual hook-ups in increasingly inappropriate situations, “I may not know him, but I know me and I know you. As long as we’re quick and quiet-“

“I’ve heard that before.”

“-We have nothing to worry about,” Bruce hesitates, reaches out to cup his face in both hands. Somehow, it doesn’t feel as terrifying as such an action usually does, “do you trust me, Hal?”

He hesitates for a long moment, staring into the blank lenses of Bruce’s cowl, and then sighs. Hooks his ankles around the back of Bruce’s thighs, and yanks until they’re both sprawling gracelessly across the medical table.

And, from there, it’s a pretty wild time. He spreads his legs encouragingly, Bruce spreads him across the table in return and they melt into each other. He manages to convince the top half of his uniform to fade away, Bruce manages to wriggle one of his hands out of its gauntlet and they revel in the feeling of skin against skin. He bucks up into Bruce’s hand, Bruce pushes down into his heat and the air seems to spark so very perfectly between them.

...For a few minutes, until the electronic whine of the door intrudes.

By the time Sinestro properly enters the room, to arch a mildly curious eyebrow at them, Bruce has slid back to his feet and he’s perched innocently on the edge of the table. Perfect, simple, so inncent that he could weep at the boringness of it. Except for his top half still exposed to the air, and Bruce’s bare hand guiltily clutching his gauntlet, and...

“I got injured,” he blurts, before Sinestro becomes aware of those things too, “when the mission went wrong. Bats was just checking that I was alright, not internally bleeding or anything.”

“Indeed?” Sinestro asks haughtily, and sweeps across the room before either of them can delay him. He gives his chest a critical, only briefly longing look over – and then sends Bruce an extremely deliberate glance, “I trust you haven’t hurt him further?”

“You can talk,” Bruce snaps. And then, more reasonably as he winces at the alpha dog energy flowing between them: “do you need anything, Sinestro?”

“We are steadily approaching the earth,” Sinestro sniffs, backing down with only the briefest glance in his direction, “I thought your little friends would be better able to resist the urge to blast us out of the sky if they saw a friendly face – well, mask – at the helm. I can take over here, if you wish. I’ll make sure that he’s well cared for.”

“I-“ Bruce starts reluctantly, only relents and starts drifting for the door when he pointedly clears his throat, “you better. And if I come back to find a single scratch on him-”

“You’ll make my life hell in a variety of painful and non-lethal ways, I am aware,” Sinestro sneers almost boredly. Only allows the expression of scorn to drop back to barely restrained rage when Bruce has stalked all the way out of the door and stopped glancing warily behind him, “seriously, Jordan, are you actually a gibbering monkey?”

“Hey,” he protests cheerfully, mind still lingering on the protective outrage spreading helplessly across Bruce’s face, “things other than monkeys can get injured!”

 

\--

 

“Jordan,” Bruce whispers, obviously trying his very hardest to sound reasonable and failing _utterly_ , “I am _injured_.”

“I was injured last time,” he says cheerfully, and crowds right into Bruce’s space – not that that’s really avoidable, considering their current position, but it’s the thought that counts, “call this making it even and enjoy yourself?”

“That was several times ago, if we’re keeping track,” Bruce points out, still obviously trying – still obviously failing – ever so hard to be level, “and you weren’t actually injured, as I recall. And we were in a far less precarious situation that had a far lower chance of violent and embarrassing deaths for absolutely everybody involved.”

“Were we?” He asks innocently, attention still focused on how he can just about feel the warmth of Bruce’s skin through his suit.

“That time we were flying away from danger,” Bruce says, still gives a slightly breathy sigh when he wriggles his fingers inside one of the rips to stroke at scarred skin, “this time I’ve lost my belt, you’ve decharged your ring and we’re stuck right in the middle of it.”

...He has to admit, the man does have a point.

It was a team up, a whole pack of Gotham villains – excluding that maniac fucking clown, thankfully – grouping together seemingly for the purpose of making life that little bit more difficult. Bruce had hit a wall with them – and, for possibly the first time in his life, had decided that he needed help. _his_ help, in particular. Which had, somewhat unfortunately for the strange warmth that’d blossomed in his chest at that unexpected trust, led them here. Trapped in a closet together, with a pack of murderous villains potentially lurking just outside.

“Well,” He admits reluctantly, and pulls back as far as he’s able, “when you put it that way...”

But, before he can move all the way, Bruce’s hand reaches out whip fast and drags him back until they’re pressed together again. From chest to thigh, both as helplessly worked up as each other and with no way of hiding it.

‘Whoa,” he says wryly, almost fondly – which he’d be terrified by at any other time, but... “Mixed signals, much?”

“Hal...”

“Look,” he offers reasonably. Because he can be reasonable, especially when it leads to him getting laid, “we’re useless like this, both of us. We’re too amped up to think properly, and it’s already fucked us over. If we have sex now, quickly and quietly, we can take the edge off and come at this from a whole new angle. A blissed out, orgasm high angle.”

He sees the frown on Bruce’s face – far too sharp, like he’s trying to hide his amusement – even through the dark.

“Well?”

“That,” Bruce sighs, and it’s probably a credit to how well they know each other that he can catch the amusement lurking underneath, “does not sound like sound scientific reasoning .”

“Do you mind?” He asks, grinning.

“...Hn,” Bruce allows, and reels him fully back in – until he can feel hot breath on his lips, a warm thigh pressing gently between his legs, “less than I thought I would, I must admit.”

And from there, as per usual, it’s a pretty intense ride. He bucks down onto Bruce’s thigh, Bruce lifts up into him and they rub together so perfectly that it’s all he can do to restrain a yell. He kisses Bruce hungrily, Bruce bites at his lip in return and they breathe each other’s air like it’s natural. The last of his costume fades back from his skin, Bruce wriggles until his own tights are sliding down his thighs and-

A loud clang echoes through the room, the sound of a door being thrown open in the most melodramatic way possible.

“Y’know,” Harley – he thinks the less obnoxious clown, the one with the boobs and the accent and the smile with far too many teeth for a woman her size, is called Harley – sniffs, as they both freeze into disbelieving silence, “I don’t know why we’re working for the Penguin anyway. He’s just so... _Slimy_.”

“I know, my dear,” a male voice echoes, along with the sound of footsteps coming ever closer on the concrete floor, “but he pays well. And is significantly less likely to brutally murder us than your boyfriend.”

“Mistah J-!”

“I think they did come in here, you know,” the male voice – the Riddler? He thinks that’s the one with the question mark fetish – continues hurriedly, keeps walking ever closer towards them, “those look like footprints, don’t they? And little drops of blood, from where Croc got him. Leading closer and closer, right up to...”

Bruce tenses against him, accidentally moves his thigh right up against his bare cock. And, against his will, a strangled noise comes out – quiet, but still hanging accusingly in the air between them.

“...Uh,” The Riddler starts awkwardly, after a long and slightly desperate pause. One which he spends quietly cursing, and which Bruce spends quietly glaring at him, “thinking about it, this actually doesn’t look like the place at all.”

“What’re you talking about, Eddie? They’re clearly-“ There’s a low _oof_ , as if somebody has been elbowed in the ribs. A long and meaningful pause, as they both tense for the inevitable battle waiting ahead “...Not anywhere close to here! They must’ve gone to the next warehouse, or the one after that, or the one after _that_. Or even just flown away, like birds into the sky!”

“A little over the top, but...” there’s a low, almost relieved sounding sigh. And then, miraculously, the sound of footsteps heading steadily away from their hiding place, “come, Harley, let’s search places away from this disgustingly unhygienic hole.”

“I don’t know,” Harley stage whispers, as their voices get further and further away, “I think it’s kinda sweet.”

“I think,” the Riddler says, with such feeling that he’d almost be sympathetic if he wasn’t currently naked and cramped and hiding from the guy, “that I will need several extremely large and potent drinks before I can think about it at all.”

 

\--

 

“Bruce,” he yawns, half drunk on sleep, “are you sure this is a good idea? I’m heavier than I look, you know…”

Bruce only hushes him, shakes his head, reaches out and pulls him down into his lap with a businesslike tug that honestly shouldn’t make warmth spread through his chest… But, well, he’s getting used to that now. He’ll look up, see Bruce punching a bad guy or drinking some coffee or typing on the computer in the cave, and that flood of warmth will spread through his chest – it feels what he supposes inevitability would feel like.

“And I might snore,” he continues stubbornly, curling up on Bruce’s lap anyway – the chair validating Bruce’s perfectionist nature, and somehow managing to hold both of them, “loudly, at great length. Never did get a straight answer as to whether I do that, or not…”

“Jordan,” Bruce says, and his tone is as warm as his skin, “I am _trying_ to work here. Please be quiet.”

It’s been a long night. An incredibly long night, where Bruce asked for his help again and he agreed in surprise and they punched bad guys and got punched themselves and… Hit a wall, he supposes. Usually, after a team up, he’d say his goodbyes and fly home as quickly as possible. Usually, after a team up with _Bruce_ , he’d goad the man into a quick fuck and do much the same thing. But this time he worked harder than normal, flew higher than normal. And _this_ time he wants to do nothing of the sort.

“You might be tempted to put my head through the computer,” he makes one last ditch effort to protest, panic trying its very hardest to claw through the satisfying veil of sleepiness, “you might actually put my head through the computer. And then you’d be pissed, and the computer would be broken and…”

“Hal,” Bruce says quietly, surprisingly sweetly. And, before he can twitch at that, raises his hand to his hair and gives it a slow stroke, “I promise that I won’t put your head through my computer. Now close your eyes, and _sleep_.”

And from there, it’s as irresistible as the warm feeling. He cuddles into Bruce’s chest, Bruce strokes his hair and they rest together. He snorts accidentally against Bruce’s cheek, Bruce sighs warmly against his mouth and they adjust their positions around each other. He smiles, Bruce chuckles gently into his ear and-

“Oh,” a soft voice interrupts them, the gentle klink of a tray being set down, “my apologies, sir, I was not aware that you had company.”

He jerks up, from where he was mostly asleep, to see an old man smiling at them both almost fondly. A tray waits on the nearest table, somehow holding two cups of steaming tea despite the butler’s claim to shock. By the look in Bruce’s wide eyes, he also wasn’t expecting the sudden and shocking intrusion.

…Well, that’s _something_ at least, “this- this is not what it looks like!”

“Really, sir?” The Butler – Alfred? He remembers Bruce mentioning an Alfred – smiles at him, carefully makes sure that a plate of biscuits is clearly visible on the tray, “and what is it supposed to look like, if I may ask?”

“I-“ he looks at Bruce. Who, for possibly the first time in his life, looks just as stumped as him, “ _I_ -“

Alfred watches them for a few seconds, smiling, before clearly deciding to take pity and shaking his head. He carefully arranges the tray a little more, making sure that the sugar is also clearly visible, and tucks his hands neatly behind his back, “it’s alright, sirs, I’ve known of this for a while. I think many people have, judging by master Kent’s increasingly frantic phonecalls over your behaviour.”

“Clark,” Bruce says slowly, glancing at him as if to check the inherent insanity of the situation “…Called you about us?”

“I, personally, think that it’s rather sweet,” Alfred proclaims cheerfully, completely and utterly failing to acknowledge the look on Bruce’s face, “if you’ll forgive me for using such a term, sirs. This world can be a dark and cruel one, and we must all look after each other if we are to find the light in it. I am glad that you have finally settled your differences, and started looking for the silver lining in each other.”

“Hn,” Bruce says, eyes still wide.

“…Thank you?” He manages, perhaps a little weakly considering the situation and the fact that he’s still sitting in Bruce’s lap, “I think?”

“There is no need to thank me, sir. I am only stating my opinion,” Alfred gives them a long look, and then smiles again. He used to think that butlers were supposed to be austere, the amount of amusement lurking in this one’s eyes is challenging his entire worldview, “if you would prefer, I could swear to tell no other person and keep your sordid secret for as long as I possibly can?”

“Hn,” Bruce repeats, eyes still wide.

“… _Thank you_.”

“Very good, sirs,” Alfred gives them another long, fond look and then picks up one of the cups of tea and hands it to him – he almost drops it, but manages to avoid dumping a load of hot liquid all over Bruce’s stunned face by the skin of his teeth, “and might I say, this is all quite exciting. I have _longed_ to keep a secret that nobody else knows for my entire life. My my, it is _quite_ like a detective novel.”

…And this might be a bad idea. But for the first time since they started this whole thing, with Bruce still holding him and Alfred chattering cheerily away, he can admit that he doesn’t actually mind that much.


End file.
